


Bloodied Feet, Hallowed Ground

by Anonymous



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Banging your commander after killing his enemies, Canon-Typical Violence, Just typical Megastar antics, M/M, Suggestive Themes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-14
Updated: 2019-08-14
Packaged: 2020-09-01 00:43:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 954
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20249338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Starscream is like a finely-tempered weapon of war. Megatron would prefer to wield no other.





	Bloodied Feet, Hallowed Ground

**Author's Note:**

> James Roberts once said that during the war, Starscream was Megatron's assassin of choice. I haven't stopped thinking about it since.

Starscream’s return is heralded by the crack of the sound barrier. It’s a thunderous sound that leaves the contents of Megatron’s quarters rattling precariously, and would have caused lesser mechs to fare similarly.

But Megatron doesn’t look up from the datapads strewn across from his desk, and the only indication that he’s even acknowledged his subordinate’s mach speed arrival is the slightest quirk of his lips.

There’s a moment of calm as he continues to review the intelligence reports that Soundwave had provided. His audials catch the gentle whirl of turbines and the whisper of thrusters as Starscream makes a decidedly less dramatic descent towards the balcony.

For someone unaccustomed to this song and dance, Starscream’s silent approach would feel predatory. For Megatron, it’s simply a reminder to watch his footing around a Seeker so adept at the art of the hunt; and a welcome one at that. 

Megatron feels his fuel pump quicken at the prospect of his deadliest weapon being turned against him. It instills in him a sense of youth, harkening back to days in the arena when even the slightest misstep would have you turned from a gladiator into the spoils of war.

He doesn’t turn around. Megatron greets his second with no fanfare and simply the imposing sight of his back and a drawl of, “Starscream.”

There’s a thrill to leaving himself to rely on nothing more than the increasing volume of Starscream’s footsteps. They’re followed by a moment of pause, and even Starscream’s ventilations seem to still in the interim before he dares to make his move.

“The mission was a success, thanks for asking,” Starscream says in that manner of his that’s somehow equal parts annoyed and sultry. His wings give a haughty flick, and he considers scoring a petulant line down Megatron’s back to demand his attention. But such thoughts are fleeting in the face of his euphoria, one that always comes in the wake of an assassination, and his voice dips as he adds, “I brought you something.”

Megatron fiddles with a projection of an Autobot stronghold, zeroing in on the structural flaws that Laserbeak had identified. His tone and posture betray very little as he prompts Starscream with an, “Oh?”

“A trophy,” Starscream declares, and Megatron can practically hear the tension in his jaw as he speaks. Starscream never has taken well to divided attention. “No, a _gift._ From me to you.”

There’s something much more insidious about his amended word choice. Despite Megatron’s best attempt at appearing nonchalant, that has him raising his head with no shortage of trepidation.

He isn’t given the time to play Starscream’s little game before the Seeker’s lack of patience and thirst for validation have him unceremoniously dropping said gift onto the table; but not before Starscream allows himself a moment to dangle it from his talons only centimeters from Megatron’s face. 

Megatron watches the severed head roll through the holographic display. It teeters for a moment before going still, face up, blank optics eerily pointed in Megatron’s direction.

“How grotesque,” Megatron remarks, his tone flat despite the way that pride swells in his chest and heat propagates down his circuitry in blasts of electrical potential. 

Starscream, never above rising to the bait, huffs indignantly. “It was a flawless execution. As always.”

“I can see,” Megatron muses, finally giving in to the desires of his Second. It’s only appropriate, given the continued efficacy of Starscream’s work. 

Megatron picks the lifeless head up and rests it upright on his palm. As he gives the offering a critical examination he says, “It was a clean cut. Done after you extinguished his spark, surely.” 

There’s a dangerous glint in Starscream’s optic, an unspoken dare to question his ability again. “He was alive. It would be to your benefit not to underestimate me like that.”

_Should I be turned against you_ is the implication, and Megatron’s interface primes itself at the thought.

“Were you being thorough, or self-indulgent?” Megatron asks, though it would be an insult to the millennia they’ve spent together to not know the answer. He continues to marvel at Starscream’s craftsmanship, and how the senator’s expression is frozen into one far too passive for him to have been aware of his assailant.

“Politicians love to wax poetic about their inherent worth to society,” Megatron says. His words are a low growl, not the loud and impassioned diatribes that he employs to rally their troops. It’s a quiet resentment, far more sinister in its sense of calm, and one that only a select few have ever been privy to. “But we all bleed the same.”

Not that there’s any blood splatter to affirm such a fact. Starscream’s vanity extends to his work, undoubtedly, and he goes about it with a precision and finesse that’s reminiscent of the royalty of ancient Vos. Surely Starscream used his favorite blade to carry out the task, one that would cauterize the wound and leave his token of victory as spotless as his performance.

“You’ve done well, Starscream,” Megatron says, his voice a powerful rumble as discards the trophy and turns to face his Seeker and drops any pretense of having been less than impressed. 

Starscream’s wings flutter at the provocation in Megatron’s gaze, his own optics smoldering with something other than the sadistic pleasure with which he had presented his kill. “And how do I know I can trust your word?”

Megatron takes a step forward. The heat brewing in his core is practically palpable as he trails a hand down Starscream’s side before roughly - selfishly, possessively - groping his aft.

Words have little meaning to someone who survives off of spinning lies and deceit. But Megatron is nothing, if not a man of action.


End file.
